My Dead Father Just Checked Into A Nursing Home

The nursing home called. They said my father had checked in. I instinctively replied, “You have the wrong number. My father, George Stone, passed away three years ago.” I heard the rustle of papers on the other end. “The intake form lists George Stone, age sixty-five, a recipient of the eminent domain buyout, and his daughter, Harper Stone. This is your cell number.” The hand holding my phone started to tremble. My father was George Stone, and I was Harper Stone. And yes, our dilapidated family home had recently been condemned by the city, qualifying us for a substantial seven-figure buyout. Every single detail was correct. But my father’s urn was sitting on the memorial mantel in my living room.

How could he possibly be in a nursing home? “You must have made a mistake. My father died of a heart attack three years ago. His ashes are right here.” A two-second silence. More paper rustling. “Ms. Stone, I’ll verify your information. You are Harper Stone, you work at Deloitte, correct?” “Yes,” I said, frowning. “And your family property was recently approved for the East District Buyout, is that right?” A chill ran down my spine. How did this person know such specific information? “Yes, but my father truly…” The voice cut me off. “Then I suggest you come down immediately. Your father isn’t doing well. He keeps crying out for his daughter.” Then the line went dead. I stared blankly at my cell phone, my heart pounding with a sudden, inexplicable dread. Half an hour later, I pulled up to the Green Meadows Assisted Living Facility. The moment I pushed open the reception room door, I saw a frail, silver-haired man sitting on the small sofa. He was a roadmap of wrinkles, but his eyes lit up the instant he saw me. “Harper!” The old man jumped up, arms wide, ready to hug me. I took a reflexive step back. I had never seen this face before. “Who are you?” I asked, my voice tight with suspicion. Just as the words left my mouth, someone darted out from the side. Smack! A stinging blow across my face sent me stumbling backward. Half my face felt instantly hot and swollen. “You have the nerve to show up now!” The man who hit me was my younger brother, Leo Stone. He was wearing a filthy, crumpled t-shirt, his hair was greasy, and his eyes were bloodshot. “Leo, are you insane?” I gripped my cheek. “Insane? You dumped Dad here three months ago and never looked back! You left me—your poor brother working an honest job—to be hounded by collection calls every damn day! Who’s insane?” He jabbed a finger inches from my face, spittle flying onto my skin. I suppressed my rising fury and turned to the woman behind the desk, the facility manager. “Ma’am, please show me the intake form.” The manager impassively pushed a clipboard toward me. The form clearly read: George Stone, Male, 65, Buyout Recipient. Emergency Contact: Harper Stone. A photocopy of a driver’s license was clipped to the form. I picked it up. The photo was an exact match for the old man sitting on the sofa. But my father was supposed to be three years… “How long are you going to keep up the act, Sis?” Leo smirked, pulling out his cell phone. He shoved a photo into my face. “This is you, three months ago, on the security footage, dropping him off. Still going to deny it?” In the picture, a woman in a sharp professional suit was helping an elderly man through the facility’s front doors. The clothes, the build—it looked disturbingly like me. “That’s not me,” I ground out. “It’s not you?” The old man, the imposter, spoke up, his voice a raspy whisper. “Then tell me, was our old house on Maple Street, Apt 3B?” I froze. “When you were ten, you broke your leg, and I carried you to the clinic. The doctor said you needed a cast, and you cried so hard the whole hospital could hear you.” As the old man spoke, his eyes welled up with tears. My head swam. Those were details only my father would know. The man’s trembling hand reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, embroidered handkerchief with a clumsy, off-center ‘G’ stitched into the corner. “You gave me this for my tenth birthday. I’ve carried it ever since.” I stared at the stitching. It was unmistakably my work from childhood. But… “Enough of this reunion! Pay the bill!” Leo shoved me hard. The other residents’ families gathered, watching and pointing. “These young people today, they think their parents are an embarrassment. Denying your own father.” “Look at her. Dressed like a queen, heart black as pitch.” A large woman rushed toward me and gave me a violent push. “An ungrateful viper like you deserves the worst!” Caught off balance, I fell, my knee striking the chair leg with a sickening thud. Leo didn’t help me up. Instead, he pulled out his phone and started filming. “Look everyone! This is my sister! She dumped her own father in a facility, ignored him for months, and now she’s pretending she has amnesia! I’m putting this video online to expose her!” I lay on the floor, my knee throbbing. I looked up at the stranger dabbing his eyes. But my father’s urn was on the mantelpiece. What in God’s name was happening? I gripped the chair and hauled myself up. I fumbled for my own phone and pulled up the photos from the funeral three years ago. “Look closely! This is a photo from his wake. I have the cremation certificate. This man is not…” Before I could finish, Leo lunged, snatching my phone. Crash! He slammed it onto the floor. The screen instantly shattered and went black. “You evil witch! You’re actually fabricating evidence that Dad is dead? Have you lost your mind trying to hoard the Buyout money?” Leo’s scream vibrated in my eardrums. The old man buried his face in his hands, his shoulders convulsing with sobs. “Harper, what did I ever do to deserve this? To be cursed by my own daughter…” “I’m not cursing you!” I pleaded. Leo suddenly tore open his t-shirt, revealing a network of old scars and calluses. He dropped to his knees in front of the old man. “Dad! Look how your sister treats us!” He wailed, tears and snot smearing his face. “She’s been an ungrateful viper since childhood! I’ve been hauling concrete and working construction to send money home, and look at my hands—they’re raw!” “She sits in her air-conditioned office collecting a six-figure salary, and now she wants to kill you off just to steal your money!” The onlookers gasped. “That woman is cold-blooded.” “Hurting her own father? She’s not human.” The manager tapped her desk. “Ms. Stone, please be mindful of your behavior. Your father is clearly distressed.” A middle-aged woman in a caregiver uniform hurried over, leaning in to whisper. “Ms. Stone, I’m Donna, the lead nurse. When the resident first arrived, he was disoriented, kept saying he wasn’t George Stone. He’s only stabilized recently. I suspect he has advanced dementia…” “Shut the hell up!” Leo leaped to his feet, jabbing a finger in Donna’s face. “You cheap hired help! Don’t you dare spew your medical garbage! I’ll get you fired!” Donna paled and backed away, silenced. I stared at the old man, my mind racing. “Then answer this: What was my mother’s name?” The old man froze, his eyes darting away. He stammered, his lips moving soundlessly. “Eleanor!” Leo jumped in. “Eleanor Stone! What kind of daughter doesn’t know her own mother’s name?” “My mother’s name was Eleanor. But we called her Ellie,” I said, my voice dangerously calm. “Eleanor Lee Stone.” Leo didn’t flinch. “Lee was her maiden name! Ellie was her family nickname! You’ve forgotten your own mother’s name, you traitor! I think you’re the imposter!” He grew louder, spitting his accusations. “You hated us because we were poor. You left for college and never came home. Mom cried your name until the day she died, and you didn’t come back! And now you want to pretend to be the dutiful daughter?” The crowd murmured in agreement. “Too educated for her own good. Disowned her whole family.” “She needs to be on the news.” I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my palms. The manager stood up, her face grim. “Ms. Stone, your father has an outstanding balance of eight thousand dollars. Please settle it immediately, or we will have to call the police for abandonment.” “That’s right! Pay up!” Leo lunged, grabbing a handful of my hair from behind. “Ah!” The agonizing pain from my scalp made me gasp. He started slamming my head against the wall. Thud! Warm liquid trickled down my forehead. “Pay up! You bloodsucker! This is Dad’s life savings, and you’re trying to hoard it! I’ll kill you today!” Leo continued to slam my head. It felt like my skull was splitting open. “Hit her harder! That’s what an ungrateful daughter deserves!” “Teach her a lesson!” I could hear people cheering him on. My vision blurred; all I saw was red. I heard Leo’s curses, the crowd’s jeers, and the old man’s sobbing. Then, I laughed. “What are you laughing at, you psychopath!” Leo released me. I crumpled to the floor. The old man, Victor, pulled a worn photograph from his jacket and handed it to the manager. “This is our family portrait. Harper was only five…” The manager took the photo. I looked up. It was a shot of a young couple standing in front of a carousel at an amusement park. The mother was holding a little girl in pigtails. That little girl was me. I remembered that trip—it was for my fifth birthday. The date handwritten on the back read: June 15th, 1990. My birthday. But the man in the photo… I shot to my feet and snatched the picture. The angle was natural, and the lighting suggested it hadn’t been digitally altered. “See? Iron-clad proof!” The manager’s expression hardened. “Ms. Stone, the photo proves you are avoiding your responsibility. I am calling the police right now to report elder abandonment.” The surrounding families pulled out their phones, snapping pictures of me. “Take her photo! Put her on blast!” “She has to be exposed!” Leo grabbed the picture back, holding it aloft triumphantly. “You see this? This is my sister! She thinks she can get away with not paying a penny!” He spun toward the crowd, his voice shrieking to a fever pitch. “I’m telling you! My father is sitting on a $750,000 buyout fund! My sister wants to hog every cent, she’s a snake!” “$750,000?” The crowd gasped. “No wonder she’s pretending he’s dead!” “Betraying family for money. She’s toxic.” A man in a suit pushed through the crowd, flashing a badge. “I’m a city mediator. I received a call from the facility.” He looked at the photo, then at me. “Ms. Stone, the evidence is overwhelming. You need to fulfill your duty of care, pay the balance, and sign a commitment agreement. Let’s resolve this now.” I wiped the blood from my face, my eyes fixed on the photo. The “father” in the picture had his left hand resting on the “mother’s” shoulder. On his left ring finger, there was a small, dark mole. I closed my eyes, recalling the hand of my real father. There was no mole. There was a scar—a jagged, white line from a construction accident when he was young. I opened my eyes, a slow, cold smile touching my lips. “Fine. I concede.” Leo stared at me. “What did you say?” “I said I concede. This is my father.” I reached into my purse and pulled out my wallet, extracting a credit card. Just then, Leo slammed an arm around my neck from behind. “Don’t you dare try anything! You’re not leaving until that money is paid!” His knee ground into my lower back, choking the air from my lungs. The mediator frowned. “This is a family matter. Keep your hands off her.” He turned his back. My face was turning purple, and my vision dimmed. I clawed at Leo’s arm, finally prying his grip open, gasping for air. “I said I concede.” I braced myself against the wall, straightening my suit. I looked at the old man. “However, my father, this George Stone, is mentally ill.” The old man’s face changed instantly. I pulled out my cell phone—the old, broken one—and searched for a page on advanced dementia symptoms. “Look, everyone. Memory loss, cognitive impairment, emotional instability. He fits every criteria.” I read the symptoms out loud, one by one. “He initially claimed he wasn’t George Stone. That’s a classic case of identity recognition failure—mid-stage Alzheimer’s.” Nurse Donna’s eyes widened. She nodded frantically. “Yes! That’s exactly how he was when he arrived!” “Furthermore, he exhibits violent tendencies. He was extremely agitated just now. If his condition deteriorates, he could seriously harm the other elderly residents.” The facility manager’s face went pale. I looked at all the horrified faces. I spoke slowly, distinctly: “As his daughter, I must be responsible for him, and for the safety of everyone else in this facility.” “I am sending him to the state psychiatric hospital for a mandatory hold.” The room went dead silent. The old man collapsed back onto the sofa, his face a sheet of white. “No, please don’t…” “You’ve gone mad!” Leo roared, lunging toward me. “You evil bitch! You want to lock Dad up in a lunatic asylum? Over my dead body!” He rushed to the mediator. “Aren’t you going to do something? This is elder abuse!” The mediator looked uncomfortable. “Ms. Stone, I don’t think that’s appropriate…” “Why not?” I pulled out the working cell phone from my jacket pocket—a backup—and dialed the city psychiatric intake line. “Hello, I need to arrange for the immediate transfer of an elderly patient with Alzheimer’s. He has displayed violent behavior and requires a mandatory psychiatric hold.”